Matilda
by Deastrumquodvicis
Summary: A thirteen-year-old Sherlock must deal with the loss of his only friend, his cat, Matilda.


Matilda, a nebelung, was the pride of her human, Sherlock. He loved her dearly, and when things got tough for the twelve-year-old, he sometimes felt she was the only person he could turn to. Even though she was a cat.

When he failed his Geography of South America exam, she was there. When no one asked him to birthday parties or weekend get-togethers, he could sit in silence with Matilda. When his parents compared him to Mycroft, he could always talk to Matilda. He loved her and was convinced that she loved him.

It was all the worse when she vanished two days before his thirteenth birthday.

His parents had decided to throw him a birthday party, but Sherlock didn't really have any friends so it ended up that his parents' friends (plus, obviously, Mycroft) were the only people in attendance. Between the sickly sweet cake and the annoyingly bright decorations, it was certainly not the sort of party Sherlock would have wanted if he had been in charge of planning it. But then, it was the only birthday party he'd ever had so he'd better relish it. The only reason he'd never had a party before was a mystery to him, but, going by the level of fun he was having, he didn't want another one. All the grown-ups were being annoying, Aunt Gina kept pinching his cheeks, and Grandpa Wilfred kept losing his false teeth in his whisky and lime. All Sherlock wanted was to cuddle up with a purring Matilda and maybe play Guess the Atomic Element with Mycroft.

He sat glumly in the back yard, the demeaning cone hat tilted jauntily on his head in defiance, staring out across the yard. Mycroft was having a third slice of birthday cake, but everyone else had mercifully gone inside.

"Are you sure you don't want any?"

"You know I don't like chocolate." Sherlock shrugged off his brother's offer.

"It is your cake."

"I didn't want cake. I didn't want a party."

He stood up, having seen something Matilda-coloured in the grass. As he got closer, he discovered that it was, in fact, his beloved cat and he broke into a grin.

"Matilda!"

His grin faded as he realized why she was laying on the ground. She normally loved to lay in the dirt as cats do before washing themselves. But her eyes were open and vacant. She was dead. There is no description for the horrible noise that issued from Sherlock's mouth as he realized Matilda was gone and collapsed to the ground. Mycroft came rushing over instantly to his little brother's side as a good sibling would; realizing the horror of what Sherlock had just found, he put his hand on his brother's shoulder—not a common gesture for the older Holmes brother.

Sherlock fell into a pit of despair at the loss of his one and only friend. He barely even registered his parents coming over to investigate the strange scream-like sound. All he could think about was that he wasn't able to save her. It was as if his mind shut itself off in order to keep itself from harm. He could just about feel Mycroft hugging him and reassuring him that it was going to be okay. Sherlock knew he was lying.

Uncle Thom was a veterinarian, and, after a few hours, decided that Sherlock might find a necropsy therapeutic. There's no reason a cat should have died of old age at the age of five, so for whatever messed up reason, Uncle Thom asked Sherlock to help him.

"What's a necropsy?" the thirteen-year-old asked.

"Well, it's like an autopsy for animals."

"Oh." Sherlock had just been reading crime fiction and thus knew what an autopsy was.

"Would you like to help?"

"But…it's Matilda!" Sherlock's lower lip quaked and he hated himself for it. "I can't cut her open!"

"Don't think of it as Matilda, then. Think of it as a mystery to solve. Like your book. You just need to find out the cause of death."

"Don't make him do this, Uncle," said Mycroft softly. "You know what an impressionable thing a child's brain is."

Sherlock was stuck in a moment of indecision. On the one hand, he wanted—no, needed to know what had killed her. But on the other, he wasn't sure he could slice into someone he loved (for he thought of her as a person, not as a thing.)

"I—" He choked up. "I'll do it. I'll try."

He held the scalpel at the angle he was instructed.

_Don't look at her eyes._

The blade broke through the skin just as a whimper broke through Sherlock's resolve.

_It's not her, it's not her, it's just like that frog._

The slice ran from her neck—

_Its neck. Its neck. Not her._

—down to the pelvic bone. A small incision was made at the top and bottom to allow for access to the internal organs. And then he saw her face, staring up at him as if pleading for mercy, and he knew she had died in pain.

Then suddenly all went dark.

When Sherlock awoke, he found himself in his bedroom, shaking and crying. Mycroft was in the room, protectively watching him. Sherlock wished he hadn't been.

"I hate emotions. I wish they'd go away."

The vision of Matilda's terrified face came back to him and he nearly blacked out again, curled up into the fetal position, but managed to breathe steadily enough to keep himself conscious. He hated himself for his reaction, which, yes, he could understand from a logical point of view, but that didn't stop him finding it embarrassing. From now on, he would ignore them completely and just focus on facts.


End file.
